In fifty years no one will know.
The heavens will wheel and the trees
drop their berries, but no one will
know what he knows now about love,
the part already passed, the part
around the corner, the part that
wrenched the mind from its spiny cave,
the part that sheltered in the flesh.
No one will know how it all stood
on the verge of oblivion,
the noctilucent air distilled
in the sound of her voice failing.